What Scares You?
by FactofFiction
Summary: It was a game they always played at work. A coping mechanism, really. In a job where so few people were truly honest with their partners, the two of them had to find a way to break through all the bullshit. To stop pretending. One-shot. Tiva cutting through the bullshit.


It was a game they always played at work. A coping mechanism, really. In a job where so few people were truly honest with their partners, the two of them had to find a way to break through all the bullshit. To stop pretending.

And so it went: whenever one of them asked the golden question: "What scares you?", the other had to answer. Honestly. That was just how it worked. It was as much a silent agreement as it was a dare to be vulnerable. And they sure did love to push each other's limits.

Ziva was very familiar with the game. She wasn't often the one to initiate, but she could always feel it coming. She knew Tony. He always pulled it out before a big mission. After a bad nightmare. Or in the midst of a crisis when one of their own was hurt in the line of duty.

But she wasn't expecting it here. Because they weren't crouched together against the windows of the bullpen, watching their boss work out the final kinks of their plan. And she wasn't sleeping on his couch after a movie night. And there were no plastic waiting room chairs in sight.

Instead, they were sitting on the steps of her apartment, a leftover carton of chicken alfredo open on the concrete between them as they started out at the glistening DC streets. It was getting late, like really late, but they had made a deal. They weren't moving until they figured out what they were going to do about _them. _

Not them as partners. Not them as friends. But _them. _A concept they had both built up so many walls against that it seemed near impossible to contemplate even after turning in their badges and making rule 12 irrelevant.

And maybe that was it. They weren't partners anymore, so why would she expect him to pull out the game, to play his one trump card that has always been reserved for strictly partner duties.

Maybe that was why it felt like a slap in the face.

"What scares you, Ziva?"

Her head shot up, forgetting all about her next fork full of pasta and searching for his eyes in the yellow light of the building.

He wasn't looking at her. He was focused on getting his own fork full. And stealing the last good piece of chicken.

It took a long time for her to answer, but he never let his eyes drift away from the cold Italian food while he waited.

She finally sighed.

"You have always been in my corner, Tony."

At this, he did look up. But he didn't speak.

So she swallowed, then she opened her mouth, letting her next words slide between her lips without thinking about what they might bring, "I am afraid that if we do this, I will find a way to hurt you. And you will not be in my corner anymore."

Still no words on his side. He just stared at her, his normally bright eyes muted by the dim light.

Another long sigh, and then, "It scares me to think about a life where you are not there for me. I need you…" _to be there for me. _

The sentence fell short on her tongue as if the muscle itself knew that the shortened version was more accurate anyway. She needed him. Plain and simple.

Tony still didn't say anything, and she was starting to understand why he typically rambled; why it was he felt the need to fill tense silence with jumbles of words, no matter their meaning or significance. She felt compelled to do the same now, if only to cover the deafening sound of her heart slamming against her rib cage.

"We are a team. I mean, the _team _is a team, of course - or at least it was… but we are also a team. Our own team. And sure, we fight and we pick on each other, but at the end of the day we are still a team. And I… would do anything for you. You know that. And I know you would do the same. Because you are there, in my corner, always. I have come to… _rely _on that. And you know I do not believe in relying on anyone."

It was word vomit at his point. She was no longer arguing her case, no longer presenting further evidence for his careful consideration. She was just talking for the sake of talking and in reaction to his frustrating lack of it. She was growing tired of hearing her own voice.

"Tony, I-"

She paused when she heard the scraping of styrofoam, looking down just in time to see him close the take out box - now empty - and set his fork down on top of it. He then reached for her hand, hanging awkwardly in the air between them. The pasta had fallen off her fork in light of her extended rant. He carefully extracted the plastic utensil from her grip, and it was only once she saw the way its handle was bent and stretched that she realized how hard she had been squeezing it - all of her anxiety of their current position seemed to be taken out of the innocent object without her even realizing. He set her fork on top of the box with his own.

Then he stood, picking up the box as he did and taking the few necessary steps to reach the black wire trash can on the sidewalk in front of them. She watched him move in the darkness, half expecting him to step on up to the curb and start hailing a cab. Had she said something wrong? If she was being honest, she couldn't remember half of the words that had fallen from her mouth in the last few minutes. Did she lose him already?

But then he turned back toward her, offering a hand which she automatically took and let him tug her off her seat on the third step.

Once she was standing, Ziva regained her ability to form words, something which had abandoned her while she feared he was going to leave.

"What is this?"

Okay, so they weren't great words. But hey, English was only her 4th best language.

"We're going inside," he said simply, and she almost collapsed with the relief that his voice brought. How pathetic it was to miss it so much over the very short time he had refused to use it.

"But what about…"

Their agreement. The whole reason they were here. They were to stay outside until they figured something out. They had to stay until they had a plan.

He shrugged, "Good to go."

Her eyebrows rose. She was seldom the one to be left in the dark when it came to figuring out their next steps. Had she missed something?

"We are?"

He nodded, "Sure are."

She waited for him to continue, but found that he hadn't quite returned to his typical level of chattiness yet. So she prompted him: "Care to share with the class?"

The corners of his lips twitched at her distinctly American turn of phrase. Really it was more a DiNozzo sentence than anything else. But either way, she had chosen her words carefully, hoping they would make him smile. She was content with her results.

"Well, I know what I want."

She waited for him to continue before chiming in with a simple, "As do I."

He then took a half step closer, coming into better light that allowed her to see his eyes sparkling with amusement and something else… adoration?

"Should we say it on three?"

Her brows dropped down to furrow together, whatever pop-culture reference he seemed to be making clearly wasn't within her admittedly limited wheelhouse, "Huh? Why would we need to…"

"Nevermind," He brushed the joke off with a casual wave of the hand, "Point is: we both want this. So we're gonna do it."

She nearly scoffed. Had he not been paying attention to her poorly thought out and even more poorly executed speech? Did he not hear her say that she was scared, damn near petrified of their relationship changing? _Was he not listening to me?_

The last question came out in a whine, even inside of her own head. Only DiNozzo made her think these ludicrous thoughts. Only he turned her into the stereotypical woman complaining because some cute guy wasn't paying enough attention to her. Sometimes, she swore, it was like they were already a damn…

_Ohhhhhhh. _

She stood up straighter to look right in his eyes for the first time in minutes and hold his gaze, no longer allowing its weight to intimidate her. Instead, she let it consume her, it's warmth spreading throughout her body and shielding her from the slight breeze of the night. She had finally caught up.

And with them back on equal footing, she felt more in her element than she had since she turned in her badge. More sure of herself than she had been in weeks.

And it was time to turn the spotlight back on him. It was only fair.

"What makes you think you know what I want, Tony? What gives you the right to speak for me?"

She half expected him to crumble at her words, the new confidence behind them meaning that she was now the one in charge. She was the teaser, and he the teasee. Typically, in these scenarios, only one of them could be alpha, and she assumed that it was her turn.

But nothing about him wavered. He let the slight curl of his lips spread into a proper DiNozzo grin, the kind that made her brain fuzzy and her toes go numb. She hated that smile simply because she loved it so much. But she would never admit that to Tony. _Never. _

"Because all that stuff you were saying? The stuff about me being in your corner and us being our own team? You know what that sounds like?"

She knew. She had caught onto his train of thought. But she decided to feign ignorance.

"Our partnership?"

He shook his head, another half step taken as if he was entitled to the space between them, as if he had every right to be this close to her. To overwhelm her senses with his scent and his sight and his proximity. His taste - god she wanted to know how he tasted. She would bet it was sweet. Any man who ate _that _much candy had to taste like it. Not fruity though. Something sweet but warm. Welcoming. Butterscotch, maybe?

"Marriage."

She visibly shook at his use of the word. Apparently, she hadn't been following his train of thought quite as well as she thought. She had been thinking it sounded like a relationship - like a really really good romantic relationship. But marriage…

_Hm. _

As she considered her next sentence, she couldn't help but marvel at the way his lips had curled around that single word. For years, every time he had spoken of marriage or anything of the sort, there had always been an underlying air of disapproval - disdain even. But tonight, under the hideous yellow lights of her apartment building, with the shimmering streets of DC framing his figure, he said it so gently. So purposefully. As if the word had a whole new meaning to him. Perhaps it had been pumped full of new possibilities. New dreams. New hope.

Or maybe it was her who was experiencing such a revival.

_If the shoe fits..._

"Are you proposing, Tony? Because I believe you are on one too few knees to be talking like this."

He laughed. She held her breath for a moment, ensuring that she was able to take in as much of the sound as physically possible.

"I'm also short a ring. So, no. I'm not proposing. I might be, if I had known _this _was how you felt. But for now, the only thing I'm asking is that you come inside with me."

Her eyebrows rose and her smirk deepened if only to cover the the pathetic little piece of herself that was disappointed. It was very small, indeed, but yeah, it was there.

"You are inviting me into my own building? My own apartment?"

"Well, yeah. My apartment is nearly 20 minutes away… and it's almost 2 AM. Your place makes more sense, don't ya think?" He slipped his hand into a pocket and pulled out a shiny silver key, "Plus your bed is much bigger than mine."

She eyed the key suspiciously, smoothing her hands over her own pockets in search of where she had tucked away the one to her front door. She couldn't find it. Damn man had pick-pocketed her. When had he even found the time?

_He never ceases to amaze me. _

"Don't forget more comfortable."

He simply smirked at her, taking the few words as an acceptance to his invitation, before moving around her and starting up the few steps of her front entrance.

Quickly, as nearly all of her movements were when she acted on impulse and gut feeling, she grabbed for his wrist, holding him in place long enough to slid into position in front of him, her on the top step and him on the middle one which gave her just enough height to grab his face without having to roll onto her toes.

Once there, she kissed him.

The rain on the street picked up again, and the gooey romantic within her (buried deep down, but still there) would have found the soft pitter patter of the drops to be the perfect soundtrack to accompany their first kiss. It paired nicely with the way her arms snaked around his neck and his hands found her waist through her sweater, skipping her light jacket completely in favor of softer material. It really added to the warmth of his palms and the warmth of his chest as it pressed against hers, molding their bodies together as much as the few stair steps between them allowed. It really complemented the jaggedness of their breaths as they fought for air, both reluctant to pull back for more than a split second and always returning to the other's lips as quickly as possible.

These were all things Ziva would have appreciated about the scene if she had been capable of comprehending a world outside of her partner. His lips, his arms, his skin, his scent. He did taste like butterscotch, mixed with vanilla from those damn lattes he drinks all time. Chicken wings with the chipotle sauce from their favorite bar. Pop-rocks, the candy Abby always had in large supply in the top drawer of her desk in the lab. Earl Grey. Nutter Butter. Sunshine streaming through the skylight at the office and dancing off his sandy hair. Maybe even a hint of sawdust?

He also tasted like root beer floats shared with her sister when they visited their Uncle in Jerusalem. Freshly baked Halvah, still warm from the oven. The salty water of the Mediterranean. The sips of wine she snuck out of her mother's cup during Shabbat dinner. The leather of Ari's jacket as she rode on the back of his bike through the streets of Paris.

He tasted like home, both old and new, as if he was made out of them. His body merely the accumulation of her favorite comforts from her birth country as well as her chosen one. Or maybe it was the other way around: all of these things gaining their significance in her life because they are part of him. Perhaps _he _is her home, and her environment is merely a reflection of that fact.

_Dramatic much? _

The voice in her head sounded like her sister, all teenage angst and sisterly love mixed into the teasing tone. The sound of it made her smile.

He smiled too, his large hands finding their way to either of her cheeks and holding her in place as he winded down the kiss, milking each touch of their lips for longer, forcing her to slow her movements (rather reluctantly on her end). Eventually, he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. She hissed at the loss of contact, and if not for him holding her face several inches from his own, she would have gone back in for more.

But she stayed back, her shoulders heaving as she caught her breath. How long had they been kissing? Seconds? Minutes? If her current state of lightheadedness was to be trusted, it was an extended period of time. Though she had a suspicion that at least part of that was because of _who_ she was kissing, not so much the lack of oxygen.

"What scares you, Tony?"

She whispered the question into the space between them, her eyes still closed as her breathing finally started to even out.

It took him a second longer to answer than she would have expected, and she found her eyes popping open to see what the delay was. Apparently, he had been waiting for her to do just that.

The stupid grin was back on his face as he slid his hands off her cheeks and rested them lightly on the sides of her neck, just barely brushing them through the most accessible of her curls.

"The thought of never doing that again," he whispered as his thumb slid across her lower lip, forcing her to focus on _not _tracing the same path with her tongue.

"Is that all?" she slid her hands down his chest and grabbed fist fulls of his shirt as she spoke.

He shrugged, his smile getting unbelievably bigger.

"I'm also worried that 3 months worth of a government salary isn't enough to get a diamond fit to your high Israeli standards."

She laughed, releasing his shirt and slipping her hand into his pocket to retrieve her stolen apartment key.

"You should probably make it 4. Just to be safe."

She turned toward the door to her building, bracing herself against the cold that seeped into her senses now that she was out of his warm embrace.

"That's _quite_ an investment," he muttered as he followed her through the first set of doors. Judging by his tone, he was still in a teasing mood.

"Well, we are going to have _quite _a marriage, don't you think?"

By the time she looked over at him to gauge his reaction to her words, they were already on the elevator, the button for the 5th floor lit up as they waited for the doors to close.

Once they did, the couple was enveloped with serene silence and complete privacy, if only for the next minute or so. Her mind was still reeling from the events of the couple few minutes, so she was remarkably unaware of his movement until he had her pinned up against the wall of the elevator, his fingers tangling with hers as he held her hands against the cold metal, just outside of her shoulders.

His breath on her face was intoxicating, his lips trailing across her jawline even more so. They went from below her ear, down the bottom of her cheek and turned upward at her chin, hovering so devilishly above her own as she shivered with the anticipation of his kiss.

But instead of a kiss, she was only given a low, guttural laugh as he felt her strain slightly against his grip, trying to close the short distance herself.

"Oh yeah," he chuckled again, his lips moving and just barely brushing against hers but never allowing enough pressure to meet her obvious demands, "_Quite _a marriage for sure. It'll be worth every penny."

The elevator doors opened, and he slipped away from her so suddenly that her hands continued to stay pressed against the wall for several seconds after he had released them. When she looked toward the new hallway, she caught just a slight glimpse of his body before he retreated too far down it. She didn't have to feel her jacket pocket to know he had taken her apartment key back.

As she made her way down the hall as well, more than a dozen steps behind him and still sulking in her defeat, she wondered if this was the beginning of a new game to go along with a new kind of partnership. She could see them fighting over hotel room keys and car keys and even badges (if and when team Gibbs got back together).

_Always in my corner_, she thought to herself as she stepped through the door he had left wide open, _and always on my nerves._

* * *

**FactofFiction just wrote a story from Ziva's POV? Say it ain't so!**

**Yeah... I can explain. **

**This little gem has literally been sitting in my unfinished folder forever. Its been mocking me. Intimidating me. All around making me feel inadequate because WHY IS IT SO HARD FOR ME TO WRITE FROM ZIVA'S POV? I'm a woman, for god's sake, why is it easier for me to write romance from a man's perspective than a fellow woman? And then I remember that the show writers also struggled to write the "iva" in "Tiva" and I suddenly realize it isn't entirely my fault. They always just chalked her up to being an emotional enigma and never really bothered to explore her feelings past a hand full of jealous scenes. So that leaves us FanFic folk to figure out her inner monologue on our own. And damn, that's hard. **

**So, I'm not sure how this one will be received. Feedback on this fic, in particular, would be amazing. Please let me know what you think of my first shot a Ziva's mind. Criticism is welcome. **

**And I know, I know, y'all want me to finish Revelations. I'm working on it. Scout's honor. But the moment I got some inspiration for this fic (I've been reading Ziva-centric stuff the past few days. That helped a lot), I had to do it and get it posted before I have a chance to scrap the whole thing out of frustration. So I hope y'all enjoy this. **

**For Clarification: this is taking place, I don't know, a few weeks after 10x24. Also, the 3 months salary thing is like an expression here in the states (not sure if it exists in other countries as well) and not some weird materialistic comment. People say men should spend 3 months salary on engagement rings, though nobody really does that anymore. **

**Thank you, loves. Hope you like this little one-shot. Again: feedback would be great. **


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